Class 




Gop}7ightN?____U2i^ 

CQFmiGHT DEPOSm 



®Ij0 (Hvumhth Jtttt 



®J|r (Hvnmith 3nn 



BY 
JOHN McGAW FOSTER 




THE PILGRIM PRESS 

BOSTON CHICAGO 






Copyright 1918 
By JOHN M. FOSTER 



THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON 



DEC 20 1918 




HE keeper of the inn 
stood in his doorway 
as the winter sun 
was declining 
towards the west. 
He looked out from 
the hilltop on which the village 
stood, over the slopes where shep- 
herds tended their flocks amid the 
stretches of vineyard intersected 
by winding paths. There had 
been much stir along those path- 
ways all day, and the innkeeper 
had profited by it. Many strangers 
had travelled over the narrow 
roads, on foot or on donkey-back, 
and had crowded the khan or inn 
of the \Tlllage to overflowing. It 
was needful for them to come, — 
[1] 



THE CROWDED INN 

all who were of the ancient and 
royal lineage which had its seat in 
that little town, — ^to have their 
names enrolled there in obedience 
to the mandate of the Emperor. 
Those who had no friends or kin- 
dred in the town, went to the inn. 
For many days the innkeeper had 
welcomed these guests with the 
elaborate salutations of Oriental 
hospitahty, and many nights, with 
like formalities of courtesy, he had 
told the late comers that all his 
guest chambers were full and the 
only place where they could find 
shelter for the night was in the 
open court where the travellers' 
animals were stabled. This after- 
noon there had been a larger num- 
ber than usual of those seeking 
lodging, and already the rooms 
which were reserved for the use of 
travellers were occupied. 
[2] 



THE CROWDED INN 

As the innkeeper stood there, 
slowly up the narrow village 
street came a man walking by the 
side of a donkey on which sat a 
young woman. The man was ap- 
proaching middle-age, tall, with 
firm muscles and bronzed hands, 
and heavy dark-brown hair and 
beard. The woman was much 
younger, and as she sat wearily on 
her saddle, the innkeeper looked 
at her with something of regret 
that he must say to these new- 
comers that he could not provide 
them with hospitality. And as he 
looked, his gaze rested on her face. 
There was something about it 
which seemed to distinguish it 
from the faces of the women whom 
he knew. Not its beauty alone or 
the pathetic expression of weari- 
ness held him, but an indefinable 
radiance which made him instinc- 
[3] 



THE CROWDED IXX 

tively bow his head hi reverence. 
He wished indeed that he might 
shelter this strong man and her 
whose countenance so atfected 
him. But the iim was full. 

They stopped before the door, 
and the man helped his companion 
to dismomit and seat herself upon 
a bench. She moved wearily. 
Then he spoke to the imikeeper. 

"Peace be to thee and thme 
house." 

"And peace to thee." 

"3Iay we lodge here to-night 
with youf 

"Good friend, alas, there is no 
room in the inn." 

The stranger's face showed 
deep disappointment and anxiety. 

**Xo room?" he said. "Wliat 

can I dof We had thought to 

lodge with acquaintances in the 

town: but their guest-chamber is 

[4] 



THE CROWDED INN 

already taken, so we have come 
here as the final resort. Can you 
do nothing for me?" 

"In the stable, good friend, you 
can find shelter." 

"The stable,— but, my wife,—" 

"^lany women have had worse 
lodging." 

"But you do not understand, 
good innkeeper. You know not 
whom you turn away." 

The innkeeper began a spirited 
retort. But as he was about to 
speak, his glance turned again to 
the woman's face, and he checked 
himself. 

"I know not who you may be," 
said he; "but as for her, he who 
looks can perceive that she is not 
as most wayfarers whom I street 
here. I can but regret that my inn 
is full, — else I might have the 



THE CROWDED INN 

pri\nlege of harboring a saintly 
woman." 

"You have spoken well, friend 
innkeeper; though she is my 
espoused wife, God gives me the 
right to say that your words tell 
not half the truth. Receive her, I 
beg of you; she is weary and ill." 

"I see," replied the innkeeper. 
"You have been faring far. Ne- 
cessity brings you here, as many 
another pilgrim in these days. As 
to your request for lodging, if I 
knew of any of my guests whom 
I could ask to depart that you 
might be acconmiodated, I would 
gladly do so. Here is my porter; 
I will consult him." 

The porter, a large, burly man, 
came out of the door. But to his 
master's question he replied that 
he could not think of any of the 
occupants of the inn who would be 
[6] 



THE CROWDED INN 

likely to be willing to go to the 
stable for shelter. 

"Good friend," said the 
stranger, "you say this is your 
porter. Cannot we occupy his 
room? Surely he might better 
lodge with the beasts than to ask 
this weary woman to go there." 

"Ah, traveller, I could not carry 
on my business were he not in the 
house. His name is Self-interest. 
He has always been with me. He 
has a wonderful faculty of di\an- 
ing whether any would-be guest 
is likely to prove profitable 
or troublesome. I never receive 
anybody of whom Self-interest 
does not approve, and many a one 
who gives trouble or does not pay 
me his charges he casts out. Xo; 
I could not ask him to go, even for 
a night." 

"Is there not some such un- 
[7] 



THE CROWDED INN 

profitable guest then, whom he can 
make depart?" 

The innkeeper thought a mo- 
ment. 

"Why, yes," he said and, open- 
ing the door, showed the figure of a 
man sleeping on the floor. "Here 
is one; his name is Indolence. He 
has occupied a room for a long 
time, and I really ought to get rid 
of him." And turning to the por- 
ter, he bade him cast him out. 

The porter made an effort to 
rouse the man. 

"It is no use, master," he said; 
"he will not go. After all he is 
harailess. Why should we put 
him out?" 

"True," said the innkeeper, "he 
does no real harm. Let Indolence 
remain. He is a comfortable com- 
panion." 



THE CROWDED INN 

"Is there no other?" said the 
traveller anxiously. 

"There is one," rephed the inn- 
keeper; "but I know it is no use to 
try to cast him out. I have done it 
many times, and he always re- 
turns. I have given up trying to 
get rid of him, and I have learned 
to like him now. His name is 
Habit." 

"So all your rooms are full?" 

"Yes, and I will tell you who 
occupies them. In the first are 
two ladies. One is very fair and 
beautiful. I love to look at her, 
and my wife is not jealous, for 
she, too, admires her. Her name 
is Vanity. The other lady is not 
beautiful, but she has wondrous 
dignity of bearing, and keeps 
aloof from all but her friend Van- 
ity. They call her Pride. I could 
not disturb these ladies, even for 
[9] 



THE CROWDED INN 

you. The next room is occupied 
by a man and his wife. They are 
not a gracious pair, but they pay 
me, and I could never suggest 
their leaving. The man is large 
and strong and of terrible coun- 
tenance. His wife is ill-favored, 
and speaks bitterly. They are 
called Anger and Hatred. They 
have children, Envy and Malice, 
who occupy the next apartment 
with their nurse. Jealousy. Some- 
times I think I should like to have 
them all leave me; and yet what 
would my house be if Anger and 
Hatred, En\y, Malice and Jeal- 
ousy were not in it? They are a 
part of my own family, as much as 
Indolence and Habit, or my good 
porter, Self-interest. Xo, I can- 
not ask them to go." 

"Are these all your guests?" 
said the stranger, a gleam of hope 
f 10 1 



THE CROWDED INN 

lighting his face. "Surely you 
have more rooms than those." 

"Yes; but I said truth when I 
told you that all were occupied. 
Some of the guests are now in the 
court. Perhaps you will tell them 
your story and they may consent 
to oblige you. There are two of 
them now, seated on the floor over 
there. They are engaged in their 
favorite occupations. When they 
are not eating and drinking they 
are gambling. Sometimes I feel 
disgusted with them, and then I 
forget them for a time. But ever 
and again I have a longing for 
their company, and then I am glad 
that they have not departed. But 
if you told them to go, perhaps 
they would do so to oblige you, 
and then they might not come 
back, and my house would be bet- 
ter off." 

[11] 



THE CROWDED INN 

"What are their names, that I 
may speak to them?" 

"Appetite and Avarice." 

The traveller approached the 
pair. They looked indifferently 
at him, and turned again to their 
feasting. 

"Peace to you, good friends," 
he said. "The host has given me 
permission to address you, if per- 
chance it might please you to take 
for the night your lodging in the 
courtyard, that my wife, who is 
weary and ill from her long jour- 
ney, may find shelter within." 

"And, pray, who are you?" 

"It matters not. We are hum- 
ble folk, but worthy; and the inn- 
keeper would be glad to receive us, 
if he had room in the inn." 

"But we are well content here, 
good sir. Why should we go?" 

"That you may give comfort to 
[12] 



THE CROWDED INN 

a weary woman, and afford oppor- 
tunity to our friend the host to en- 
tertain one whose presence will be 
a blessing to him." 

They laughed. "That is very 
fine, my friend, but we are old ac- 
quaintances, and the innkeeper 
would be a fool to let us go, that 
he may entertain some unknown 
yokel and his wife. You are from 
Galilee. We know your speech." 

Discouraged, the traveller was 
about to turn back to the doorway 
when his glance fell on the figure 
of a small man sitting shrinkingly 
by himself in a comer of the court- 
yard. "Perhaps here is one who 
will grant my request," he said to 
himself. "He does not seem like 
one who would rudely repel me." 
He approached the man and told 
his story. "I ask this of you but 
for the night," he said. But the 
[13] 



THE CROWDED INN 

man shrank back farther into the 
dusk of his corner. "Oh," he said, 
"I should not dare. I cannot leave 
my room, and pass the night out 
here. Be sure I would gladly 
oblige you if I could." 

"Well," said the traveller. "Be 
it so. I know not your name that 
I may thank you for your kind in- 
tentions." 

"I am Cowardice," replied the 
man. 

At that moment a man came 
hurriedly across the court. As he 
approached he smiled benevolently 
and held out his hand. "You seem 
to be in trouble, good sir. Can I 
serve you?" 

"Oh, if you could leave yom^ 
room for this night, that a woman 
weary from a long journey may 
find rest there." 

"Gladly, sir, gladly. I go to 
[141 



THE CROWDED INN 

make ready to leave at once." He 
turned away without waiting to 
receive the thanks of the grateful 
stranger. The porter was stand- 
ing near by, and to him the trav- 
eller told of the kindly offer. 

"Trust him not, sir," was the 
porter's answer. "He will never 
go out for you. His name is 
Hypocrisy. I know too well what 
his words mean. Even if he 
should really think of obliging you 
his companion. Deceit, who shares 
his room with him, would not per- 
mit it. Do not count upon his 
promises, for he will not keep them, 
nor will he take the trouble even 
to come back to tell you. You will 
not see him again." 

Sadly the traveller returned to 

the doorway. As he passed out, a 

woman with a sweet face turned 

from the bench where his com- 

[15] 



THE CROWDED INN 

p anion sat, and spoke to the inn- 
keeper. 

"I beg you," she said, "give 
these people lodging." 

"I should be glad to do so, 
friend Charity," he answered; 
"but I have no room." 

Just then a man hurried 
through the doorway. He seemed 
to be setting forth on a journey. 
His figure was tall and lithe, 
his whole bearing full of eager 
alertness. The innkeeper looked 
troubled as he spoke to him; "You 
are not leaving me, friend Ambi- 
tion?" 

"I have a plan which I wish to 
carry through," the man an- 
swered. "I had thought to come 
back to-night. But," he said, as 
he looked at the travellers, "if 
these good people need my room 
I will stay away." 
[161 



THE CROWDED INN 

"No, no," said the innkeeper, 
hastily. "I cannot part with you. 
Others may give up to these new- 
comers, — not you. Come back." 

The man passed out, and the 
stranger turned to his companion. 
"I fear it is no use, Mary," he said. 
"There is no room for us." 

Slowly the woman rose, and 
lifted her face to his with a smile 
of heavenly patience. 

"Let us go," she said. 

The innkeeper stepped forward. 
"I am sorry," he said. "Just 
around the turn of the road you 
will find a stable in a cave. It is 
empty, and you will be quieter 
there. There is straw, too, on 
which you can rest, and you may 
have it without charge." 

The woman he had called Char- 
ity moved to their side. "I will 
show you the way," she whispered. 
[17 1 



THE CROWDED INN 

A shepherd on his way to watch 
his flock passed by them as they 
left the inn. He paused a moment 
and then followed them slowly 
down the slope of the street. It 
was nearly night now. As the 
keeper of the inn watched them till 
they were out of sight, there 
passed across his face a shadow 
which seemed to tell of his feeling 
that some great opportunity had 
slipped away from him. 

Early in the morning the inn- 
keeper was again at his door. 
There was bustle then, for some of 
the transient guests were depart- 
ing, and men were bringing 
animals out of the courtyard and 
loading their packs. The inn- 
keeper had bowed his low gesture 
of farewell to one of the parting 
guests, and turned to place in his 
bag the coins which he had left 
[181 



THE CROWDED INN 

with him. As he turned he saw 
the shepherd who had passed his 
door the evening before. 

"Peace to thee," he said. 

"And peace to this house. Ah, 
friend innkeeper, I am sorry for 
you." 

"And wherefore?" 

"That you felt constrained to 
turn away those travellers yester- 
day afternoon." 

"You mean the Galilean with 
the saintly-faced wife?" 

"Yes." 

"I was indeed sorry to let them 
go. But it was a question of room. 
I even tried to persuade some of 
the guests to make place for them. 
But I cannot see why I deserve 
your sympathy. My inn is full, 
and I need no extra guests." And 
he shook the bag in his hand, for 
f 191 



THE CROWDED INN 

the last one to depart had been 
bountiful. 

"Listen," said the shepherd. 
"Wondrous things have come to 
Israel. Last night, as some of us 
watched in the field, we saw a 
heavenly light and heard the song 
of angels. It told us that the 
Saviour of Israel, the Messiah, is 
bom. And we hastened to the 
spot the angels told us of, and 
there, in the manger in the cave, 
was the holy babe, new-born of the 
woman whom you sent forth last 
night from this inn. Oh, if you 
had only kept them, — if you had 
only listened to the voice of Char- 
ity as she begged you to take them 
in — the Christ-child might have 
been here, imder your roof, to-day." 

" 'Tis a strange tale, shepherd. 
But why should I regret? The 
unearthly light might have fright- 
[20 1 



THE CROWDED INN 

ened my guests. The presence of 
a new-born babe might cause some 
of them to leave." 

"Yes, my friend, the presence of 
the Christ- Child drives out such 
guests as yours. Pride and 
Anger, Avarice and Self-interest 
and all the rest live not where He 
dwells. He is the richest and 
the fairest ^uest the world will 
ever know, and His presence 
brings peace and salvation and 
Eternal Life to whomsoever bids 
Him enter." 

"But, after all," the innkeeper 
muttered, "there was no room in 
the inn." 



21] 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 897 047 8 



